Fading Star
by outofthesun
Summary: "Do not fear death so much as the inadequate life." - Bertolt Brecht. Hazel's Last Good Day has come now, and she's glad. One-shot.


I wake up one morning feeling weightless.

It's a strange feeling; usually my lungs, Philip – they feel so heavy, but today, even when I get out of bed and walk about, they seem like they contain nothing, like they mean nothing. Which is of course untrue – without either, I'd be dead in minutes. Seconds.

And I know what day it is. It isn't Bastille Day. It isn't Recycle-Your-Plastics Day. It isn't even a half birthday. (My seventeenth birthday was last week.)

But I still smile.

I put my Oranjee dress on and walk out of the house as if in a dream, which is entirely possible, carrying only Philip, a backpack and a plastic bag. I decided on the itinerary quite a while ago. First I go to the park and swing on the swing set and just let myself remember, let myself think and try to remember how not to cry.

_Phaloxifer's not working for you anymore, Hazel. I'm so sorry._

I have to clench my jaw and think of Gus' smile. I have to breathe and close my eyes.

_How long?_

I have to pretend that I'm in the past.

_Not long enough._

Then, after a period of time that I can't measure, I walk west. It takes a while without a car, but the city is still deserted. It's still early and the silence is so loud you can hear it for miles.

I fish out the first of the three items I have in my bags; one carton of large, free-range eggs. Monica hasn't changed her car, lucky for me, because I'm sure her parents are nice people even if she's not. I open the carton and the eggs are just kind of staring at me. Taunting. Asking me if I have the guts now when I didn't the last time.

I do.

My aim is better than Isaac's, and soon the green is interspersed with egg whites and yolk. The mess is beautiful in a way I can't quite explain; a girl with a cannula, dressed for dinner, standing in front of an innocent green Ford Fiesta dripping with raw egg. Gus would have understood.

I should be more sympathetic to Monica. I should know better than anyone what it's like to be attached to someone like Isaac. Worse.

_I wasn't meant to outlive him. He was supposed to give my eulogy and not stumble over the words at my funeral like I did at his._

I drop the empty carton and head for the nearest bench. No one is about except the birds. I take out a pen and paper and write slowly and carefully.

**_Dear (in the words of Augustus Waters) Assclown Mr. van Houten,_**

**_Have you written it yet (that thing Gus asked you for)? I might need it soon._**

**_By the way, I decided on an ending for AIA, but I'm not going to tell you what it is. You wouldn't tell me that day we met. I understand why now. _**

**_I get the sense that you don't like endings._**

**_Hazel Grace Lancaster_**

There are advantages to planning things. Soon, the letter is in the post, with the correct foreign labels and everything. Lack of organisation isn't a side effect of dying. I'm glad.

Next stop: Isaac's house.

I have to sit and wait for a while, of course. I don't want to upset people today. But Isaac's house has a big old oak tree next to it. I sit and watch the vines trail up the trunk. Winter will soon take them prisoner. The tree radiates age and thereness. It's strong, and I lean against it, still feeling like I am filled with emptiness. At various intervals I sneak round the back of his house and check the clock in the kitchen. When it reads gone nine, I knock on the door.

Isaac's mother's hair is still wet when she answers the door, but she lets me in, telling me Isaac is in the living room. I tell her thank you and go to see Isaac.

"It's Not-Your-Ex-Support-Group Hazel," I say by way of greeting. Isaac smiles.

"Why you here so early? Couldn't sleep or something?"

"Maybe it was just your good looks," I tease back. Banter with Isaac is good. Not as good as banter with Gus, but good enough. "Nah, it's just today."

"Right," he answers, and something in the atmosphere inexplicably shifts. Isaac understands and it's both a blessing and a curse. "Want to play some Mayhem?" So we sit in his room and play the game. The eleventh sequel is out now. (Spoiler: he lives.) I move to an invisible cue – once Mayhem and Jackson or whatever his name is have found the lost princess of a fictional country I get up.

"I gotta go, Isaac. See you."

"Bye, Hazel." We exchange awkward touches on our shoulders. There's something in his voice and something in mine. Neither of us mentions it.

It's about lunchtime, but I'm not hungry. Nope, Hazel's got two hours left in Philip, and she is going to use them.

Item(s) number three is ready and waiting. I don't need to think about which way I'm going because my feet could get to this place from anywhere, I've gone there so many times. I don't know why I do. I don't like the place much, but I've always liked being illogical.

I place the stuff down on the ground and talk to the stone in front of me.

_Here lies Augustus Waters, loving son and friend._

_"Do not fear death so much as the inadequate life."_

I put the champagne glass in front of it and fill it to the brim, and after doing the same to my own, raise it in a toast.

"Here's to everything, Gus."

I lie down on the grass, feeling tired.

Okay.


End file.
